


Loverboy

by Familiae



Series: It's just a matter of falling apart [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Explicit Sex, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-10 02:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20127505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Familiae/pseuds/Familiae





	1. Chapter 1

The music pounded through the air, making it reverberate. The air pounded back just as viciously. Thick with sweat and raw hunger and wild need. The music did nothing but exacerbate an already unbearable atmosphere.

He needed out. He needed to breathe.

The air outside wasn't cold by any stretch of the imagination, but it chilled his damp skin. It wasn't nearly as refreshing as he had hoped—though it wasn't by any means unpleasant, but instead rather welcome.

A shudder rippled down his spine. He pushed his hair from his face, not pleased to find that his sweat had several strands plastered to his forehead. He took his time dawdling—pulling his shirt from his body, letting his clothed skin breathe; yanking on his pants, straightening the wrinkle-free material; combing his fingers through his hair, well past unkempt and wild and only tamable again with the help of a comb that had plastic teeth rather than fingers.

But the minutes ticked by, and he ran out of things to waste his time with—he had to decide whether to head back into the club, or remain on the sidewalk rather awkwardly, standing and waiting.

He pushed aside the decision for a few more moments by scanning the length of the street, people watching. There weren't many people to watch, admittedly, but it was something.

"Hey."

He didn't react for a beat, idly wondering if he should bother looking around to see who addressed him. The voice wasn't one he recognized—so it was curiosity that urged him to turn and investigate.

His curiosity had always gotten the better of him.

It took him several seconds to piece together that it had been a man, his age balancing precariously between middle-aged and elderly, who had spoken. He was thrown off by the voice he had heard—the man was obviously aged; the voice had sounded rather the opposite.

"Hey," he finally responded. His throat felt too dry, his voice almost hoarse.

The older man hesitated. Vaguely, he felt himself wonder why this man would find any need to feel uncomfortable around a stranger—a person whose opinion mattered very little, if at all.

Rather abruptly, the older man murmured, "Do you want to go somewhere?" The man must've felt such a simple question didn't accurately portray what he wanted to say, for not more than three seconds later, he tacked on, "To have — sex?"

There had been a pause before the man said _sex_, like the older man wasn't sure which word or phrase was best fit for the situation.

Surely, there was a more discreet way to put it than _sex_, though.

He crossed his arms and snorted to himself, shooting the older man a look. "Only if you pay me."

He _thought_ his voice and body language made it clear that he was joking. He _thought_ the older man would perhaps joke back, and then—well, so maybe he didn't plan everything out past the part where he demanded payment, because he didn't know _what_ to do when the man fished through his pocket, pulled out a thick wad of cash, thumbed through it, held it out, and said:

"Alright."

_Alright_. The older man didn't have a problem—didn't seem to think it was—and—hell—he must've come _prepared_, if he had that much cash on him.

Desperation tickled the back of his mind. Curiosity reared its head not long after.

It was money. Easy money.

This wasn't something he had done before—what if?

What if…?

He reached out, grabbed the money, pocketed it without counting it, and solidified their illicit contract.

"Alright," he agreed.


	2. Chapter 2

The motel scared him more than anything else.  
  
It was obviously run-down, though he didn't mind. He would have felt rather uncomfortable to head to a fancy lodge and lay in an expensive, pristine bed only to ruin it with his filth. It felt fitting that the motel was run-down.  
  
The motel didn't even have a name—the sign just boasted _Motel (vacancy)_. That was fitting. A nameless motel for nameless people to do a nameless act of nameless morals. It was fitting. It was _perfect_.  
  
The _M_ in the word _Motel_ was gone, the only clue that it had ever been there was the different colored paint upon which the letter had rested. Even more fitting.  
  
No, overall, the quality of the motel didn't bother him at all.  
  
He waited outside while the older man went into the main office, rented a room. He could've run if he wanted to—he had the money, he had two God-given feet, he could've wandered off and swindled a foolish, old man of his money.  
  
But he didn't.  
  
He stayed, leaning up against the wall of the building, watching as a few cars passed.  
  
The older man came out of the office, motioned for him to follow, led him into one of the rooms, turned on the light.  
  
It was stuffy. It was small. It was obviously fake—it held just enough to make it feel homey, but it was clearly a room that wasn't 'lived-in.' It made him feel cramped. It made him realize just what he was doing.  
  
And that scared him.  
  
On the bedside table lay a cheap Bible. A motel, used mostly for illicit deeds, had a Bible in every room. How wonderfully twisted.  
  
He waited, quite obviously unaware of how to proceed, what to do next. He watched the older man, waiting for a clue, a lead, a sign as to what came next.  
  
The older man either didn't notice his desperation, or ignored it, and went about the simple motions of taking off a jacket, hanging it up, slipping out of shoes.  
  
He swallowed, something he found rather hard to do, and took a deep, steadying breath. His pulse raced against his temple.  
  
He decided that removing his shoes was a neutral motion, and one that was easy to do. And so he slipped out of his sneakers, and after a second's pause, peeled off his well-worn socks as well. When he finished, he looked up to see the older man grinning at him and he had a hard time keeping himself from returning it. In the end, he crumbled, and his lips quirked up in what he could only assume—with a twinge of embarrassment—was a painfully shy smile.  
  
The older man took that as a cue to move, and advanced on him, grabbing him and pulling him in close. The man's face grew _uncomfortably_ close, actually—he could see the flecks of color in the man's irises, could see his reflection in the man's eye, could count the number of eyelashes—  
  
And he moved his head, tilted his chin, slid his body a few inches away, avoided the older man's lips.  
  
He could do this. He could. But not if it involved kissing.  
  
This—whatever _this_ was—was nothing personal. An experiment, perhaps. Desperation, most definitely. And curiosity. This was all about curiosity.  
  
But as curious as he was, he would not allow kisses to speckle the experience. Kisses weren't part of this. Kisses were…  
  
Whatever they were, they didn't belong here. Had no place here.  
  
Kisses were personal.  
  
This wasn't personal, and he wouldn't let it become personal.  
  
The older man either understood his need to avoid such intimate contact, or agreed. Which it was, he didn't know.  
  
"That's okay," the older man told him. "I won't."  
  
There weren't any more attempts from the older man to brush their lips together.  
  
The promise of impersonality made the whole thing so much more bearable.


	3. Chapter 3

The man led him to the bed, ushered him to sit, and then moved away—just out of eyesight—to undress. The older man didn't retreat to the bathroom, didn't hide behind a blanket, didn't go about undressing discreetly. Just walked to the other side of the bed and started fumbling with a belt buckle.

He could've turned around and watched. He could've stood and walked over, helped the older man undress. He could've—but he didn't. And he didn't have to. He felt the freedom—the liberation of expected responsibilities—in the way the older man set things out.

He was free to be as shy or lascivious as he wanted. The man didn't care either way, and didn't expect him to be both—or either.

It was ridiculous, but the thought made his throat constrict. Even now, he was being offered such silly, small measures of kindness.

He decided to undress himself as the older man did—he had no intention of being undressed by anyone else, ever. That was far too intimate an action to belong in the impersonal walls and bed of a motel room.

He left his boxers on, though, more out of embarrassment than anything else. He knew he should've taken them off, gotten it over with, but he couldn't bring himself to do it quite yet.

"Lay down," the older man directed him, stepping around the bed.

He noticed the man was naked as naked came, and cursed how he couldn't keep the blood from rushing to his face. But he ignored how his face heated and did as he was instructed. The man put a knee on the bed, ready to crawl in after him, when he suddenly grabbed the hem of his own boxers and tugged them down, threw them away. He refused to meet the man's eyes as he did so, perhaps more than a little terrified at the expression he would find there.

The man's hands were on him not more than a few seconds later, exploring just enough to make his nerves flare awake. But no more than that—the man didn't let his touches linger, didn't let his fingers roam with too much freedom.

He watched the older man in fascination—morbid fascination seemed too strong a term to use, though he certainly felt it fitting—as the man went about the necessary preparations.

The man was gentle—undeniably so; unquestionably so; _ridiculously_ so. He almost wanted to urge the man to be rough, to show no restraint, but the words shriveled up and died on his tongue before he could push them past his teeth.

He didn't _want _to hate this. He didn't _want_ this to be an unbearable experience. What he _wanted_, though, he couldn't say. But a wild, unrestrained lover was not it.

And so, he found that he crossed a bridge he thought he'd never even find.


	4. Chapter 4

He was a decent liar—he couldn't make a living off of it, but he could manage when he had to.

No matter how many times he might've tried to convince himself otherwise, he wouldn't be able to tell himself that he didn't enjoy it. There was no denying it. It was a fact. It hadn't been the best experience of his life, but it was far from unbearable.

So he didn't _bother_ trying to tell himself he didn't enjoy it—didn't bother with the useless lies. He just accepted it. Embraced it, even.

The older man must've been experienced—his age not being the indicator, but rather the way he moved, the way he handled the situation, the way he knew how to read his younger lover's body, the way he brought them both to the edge, and pushed them both over.

Most of it was a blur. He didn't mean to—didn't close down his mind—but afterwards, when the older man was washing off in the shower and he was still lying in the bed, flat on his back, he found that he couldn't remember much of it at all. And he wasn't sure if that disturbed him or not. It had only happened moments before, and all that he could really recall was that he rather enjoyed himself, barring the fact that the older man was a complete stranger.

And _that_ did disturb him, on some level.

Surely, he should've been disgusted with himself, disgusted with the man, but he found that he couldn't even muster the strength to be disgusted with anything, not even the cockroach he saw scurrying on the carpet in the corner of the room.

His skin was sticky and slick, and he found all he wanted then was a shower. He spent several minutes staring at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the thin cracks that webbed across the plaster, as he waited for the older man to leave the washroom.

When the man came out—dressed with only his wet hair as a testimony that anything had happened, that something had changed between them since they first met—he didn't say anything, just crawled out of the bed and headed for the bathroom.

"You can stay here tonight if you want," the man said suddenly. "I rented it for the whole night."

He didn't answer. Just glanced over his shoulder at the man and continued his way to the shower. There was nothing to say.

A lot of people said they felt _dirty_ after doing something like he did. Claimed it was the result of doing something so disgusting, promised that the feeling wasn't something that soap and water could wash away.

He didn't understand these claims.

Surely, he felt dirty. But when he stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel to start drying himself, he knew right away that the grime that made him feel as such was swirling down the drain, leaving him not feeling dirty, but just tired—something a nap might help. Even if the nap he took was in the cheap bed that was damp with sweat and crusty with dry need.

When he left the bathroom, a towel around his waist, he noticed the older man's shoes were missing, as was his jacket. A quick peek through the curtains assured him that the man was gone, and was most definitely not coming back.

The bargain was done.

He no longer had a purpose in the man's life.


	5. Chapter 5

When he woke up, he wondered only briefly where he was before groaning—a quiet noise that tried to stick to the back of his throat. The towel was still tied around his waist, a fact that he momentarily marveled at. He thought for sure it would come off during his slumber.

He was on his feet suddenly, collecting the clothes he had earlier discarded and replacing them on his person, slipping into his boxers, yanking his shirt down over his head, but stopping before pulling his pants on.

His hand slipped into the pocket that he had unceremoniously stuffed the wad of cash into. The thick bundle felt unfamiliar in his fingers—he didn't casually handle so much cash at one time.

Unrolling the wad, he was pleasantly surprised at how much there seemed to be. He walked to the other side of the motel bed and spread it across the nightstand so that he could see each individual, crisp bill, and counted it.

Was this how much he would earn each time? Was this the average? Was this lower than what he could've been paid? Higher?

He found that burning curiosity take flame again in the back of his mind as he kicked his legs into his pants.

How much could he make like this? It would be enough to live on his own if he wanted, wouldn't it?

His eyes traced over the money, counting it yet again, more than satisfied when he came to the same total as he had before. Without a word, he pushed the bills back into one pile, smoothed it, and rolled it up into a wad that looked just like the one the older man had handed him.

He could do this.

He pocketed the money again.

He could definitely do this.


End file.
